


Sweet Medicine

by orphan_account



Category: Cars (Movies)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-14
Updated: 2015-12-14
Packaged: 2018-05-06 14:44:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 16,599
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5421005
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Chick Hicks breaks down in Radiator Springs while Doc Hudson is away, forcing him to visit the Crippler for treatment.  The Crippler's temper and jokes are just as bad as Chick's, which might be why Chick ends up liking him so much.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The Crippler, Count Spatula, and Ginormous appeared in the first Cars video game; the Crippler’s father and Sunny are my original characters. This story takes place some time after the game but before Cars 2.

Of all the places for Chick Hicks to break down, it would have to be Radiator Springs.  It was, of course, his own fault.  He wouldn't be stuck in Hillbilly Hell if he hadn't taken a detour on his way to the Hostile Takeover Bank 500 to gloat at Lightning McQueen.  Or if he hadn't insisted that his pit crew go on ahead while he rubbed it in that he was the guest of honor at the race, while McQueen hadn't even been invited to participate.

McQueen was not impressed: he pointed out that since it was Chick's main sponsor hosting the race, of course Chick would be the guest of honor, and of course they weren't going to invite his biggest rival.  But then, to make matters worse, Chick's engine had given out at the edge of Ornament Valley.  He had had a cough for a few days but had ignored it for fear that a trip to the doctor would result in his being told not to race.  Now, it seemed, he should have listened to his crew chief and had himself examined.  At this rate, Chick wouldn't make it to the race at all.

Worst of all, he could tell that Lightning McQueen was trying not to laugh at him as the younger race car came to his "rescue."

"Good thing Sheriff asked me to follow you out of town," the red car said with a suppressed chuckle.  "Otherwise you might have sat here for hours."

"It feels like I already have!" Chick snapped.  "It took you long enough to bring that tow truck back out here!"

"I have a name, ya know," drawled the town's old rusty tow truck.  "It's Mater.  Like Tuh-mater but--"

"Whatever, just get me back into town."  Chick rolled his eyes, then winced as he felt Mater's tow hook digging into a very sensitive spot on his rear bumper.  " _Ow_!  Do you _mind?_ "

"Ignore him, Mater," McQueen advised the rust-bucket as they started back towards town.  Chick fought back a wave of nausea as the world rolled past him backwards.

"Eg-nore who?" replied Mater.

Yeah, real clever.

Things got even worse when they made it back to town.  Mater brought Chick up to Doc Hudson's office, only to have that snotty little blue Porsche of McQueen's tell him the doctor wasn't there.

"Doc's out of town at a medical conference," Sally Carrera explained, not sounding sorry in the least.  "You'll just have to wait until he gets back in a couple days."

"But I can't wait!" Chick whined.  "The race is tomorrow!  You're purposely withholding medical care to make me miss my race, aren't you?  You can't do that!  I'll sue!"

"I wouldn't advise that.  I have an excellent lawyer," McQueen chuckled with a glance at Sally.

"Besides," Sally added, "it's the truth.  Doc really is gone.  If you want to make your race, you'll have to find a doctor willing to drive out here-- or else Mater could tow you to the next town."

" _No_ ," Chick said with a shudder.  "There's _got_ to be an alternative."

McQueen thought for a minute then he gave Chick a grin the green car didn't like in the least.  "You know what. . . I think there is.  Sally, you think you could get Doc's office open?  Sheriff has an extra set of keys.  Mater can tow Chick in and get him on the lift.  I'll be there soon."

Sheriff wasn't too keen on unlocking Doc's office while the Hudson wasn't there, but Sally managed to convince him that Doc wouldn't want a patient in need to be turned away-- even though the patient _was_ Chick Hicks.  Mater towed the race car onto Doc's lift; then he and Sally waited until McQueen showed up a few minutes later.

"So, where's the doctor?" Chick asked suspiciously.

"Oh, he's coming," McQueen assured him.  To Chick's horror, the red race car started buckling him onto the lift with some restraints that hung from the sides.

"Hey, what do you think you're doing?"

"Just securing you."  McQueen blinked at him innocently.  "You don't want to roll off the lift, do you?  A fall like that would damage you so much, you'd _really_ get behind schedule."

"Well. . . all right.  I guess you have a point."  Chick let McQueen strap him to the lift by his axles.

"Okay, that should do it," McQueen said when he was finished.  "The doctor will be here in a minute."

Chick was starting to get worried.  "You're not gonna just tie me up and leave me here, are you?  The doctor _is_ coming?"

" _Yes_ , Chick."  McQueen rolled his eyes.  "I knew you were paranoid, but this is ridiculous.  Just be patient."

He left the office, followed by Sally and Mater.  It didn't make Chick feel any better when he heard Mater say, "Uh, Lightnin'?  I didn't know we _had_ a doctor 'sides Doc."

 _They can't just leave me here.  They **can't** ,_ Chick told himself.  And even if they did, everything would be okay.  It _had_ to be.  Chick's pit crew knew where he was, and if he didn't show up for the race that evening, someone would come looking for him.  He paid Buck, the crew chief, too well for him not to watch out for the boss' welfare.

Then, finally, Chick heard the door to Doc Hudson's office opening once more.

"McQueen?  Is that you?"  Chick tried to look towards the door, but the restraints kept him facing straight ahead.  "When is the damn doctor going to show up?"

Someone giggled.  _Giggled_.

"I'm not McQueen.  I'm the 'damn doctor.'"  The voice was male, though rather high pitched.  Not high pitched in an effeminate sort of way-- high pitched in a _crazy_ sort of way.

 _Who cares what he sounds like,_ Chick thought.  _Anybody's better than that pompous Hudson Hornet._   Aloud, he snapped, "Hurry it up, will you?  I've got a race to get to!"

"Oh yes, your race.  McQueen told me about that, ehehe."  Chick heard the metallic sound of what must have been medical instruments being shifted behind him.  "But you don't want to rush your medical care, oh no."

"Then h-how long is this going to take?" Chick asked.  The doctor still hadn't come into his line of vision, which wasn't helping his nerves any.  "It's just a little engine trouble--"

"It all depends."

"Depends?  On what?"

"We-ll. . . ."  The doctor drew out the word.  "I may have to. . . operate."

" _Operate_?" Chick spluttered.  "I had a cough!  I probably just need an oil change, not an operation!"

" _I'm_ the doctor here, not you," the voice said, almost primly.  "Let _me_ make the diagnosis."

Chick took a deep breath, trying to hold on to what little patience he had.  "Fine.  So could you get started diagnosing?"

There wasn't any answer save the clink of more instruments.  Then Chick heard the sound of tires moving closer on the linoleum floor of the office.

"Where should we start?  Ehehe. . . ."  Chick gasped as he felt the edge of a tire run along his rear bumper.  It didn't hurt like Mater's tow hook, but still. . . .

"My bumper is fine," Chick retorted through clenched teeth.  "I have a cough, so I think you're at the wrong end."

All he got in reply was another giggle, but nothing else touched his bumper.  He heard the tires moving up past his side, and he strained his eyes to get a glimpse of the doctor in his peripheral vision.  All he saw was a white blur, but there was something odd about it.  In the instant before the doctor rolled in front of Chick, it dawned on him: even though he was raised several feet above the ground on Doc's lift, the doctor's white body was on his eye level.  Weird.

It all made sense, though, when the doctor parked himself in front of Chick and grinned.  Chick looked him over from roof to tire and didn't like what he saw.  Not one bit.

There was a good reason why the doctor was so tall: he was a monster truck.  Or more specifically, a monster ambulance.  Chick found himself looking into the none-too-steady but brilliant blue eyes of an older model ambulance mounted on a monster truck carriage.

"Okay, ha ha, very funny," Chick said loudly.  "You got me, McQueen, you can come out now."

"Oh, but McQueen isn't here," the ambulance smirked.  "It's just you and me, racer boy."

"But this is a joke. . . right?  You can't be a real doctor!"

"Why not?" demanded the truck.  His eyes narrowed.

"Because!  You're a monster truck!"

"That," growled the ambulance, "is exactly what my father said the day I came home mounted on this carriage.  But I proved him wrong!  I _do_ have a medical degree.  If I can find it," he added under his breath, which didn't reassure Chick very much.

"Okay, okay," Chick said, deciding that it wouldn't be wise to further irritate the unstable ambulance.  "B-but-- I don't feel so bad after all.  I think I'll just wait until Doc Hudson gets back."  By now, missing his race was the least of Chick's worries, especially when the ambulance's face turned from a glower to a broad grin.

"Oh no, your treatment can't wait!  I think your condition is _very_ serious, eheheh," the ambulance replied, now chuckling.  "I'd better see to you right away."  He grasped a tongue depressor in the treads of one of his huge front tires.  "Open wide, racer boy."

"A-aren't you at least going to tell me your name?" Chick asked, partly to stall for time, and partly so he could write a scathing letter of complaint to the state medical board if he made it out alive.

"My name?  I'm the Crippler.  See?"  The ambulance shifted to show off the name painted in stark red capital letters down his side.

". . . the Crippler.  You're a doctor, and your name is the _Crippler_?"  Chick's voice rose to a very unmanly squeak.

"Yes, and with a name like 'Chick Hicks' I wouldn't say anything else about it, if I were you."  To Chick's horror, the Crippler winked at him.  "Now open that big mouth of yours."

Chick decided that the quickest way out of the situation was to let the Crippler "examine" him and get it over with.  _I'll probably end up having to wait for that Hudson anyway,_ he thought glumly.  _There's no way this quack can get me running again._   Chick opened his mouth and let the Crippler place the depressor on his tongue.

"Hmm," the ambulance muttered as he shone one of his headlights down Chick's throat.

"Wha ith i'?" Chick tried to ask.

"What?"  The Crippler scowled and pulled out the tongue depressor.  "I can't understand a word you're saying."

"I _said_ , what is it?  What did you see?"

"Your tongue, ehehe."  The Crippler pressed something on the floor with one tire, and Chick felt a jolt as the lift started moving up even higher.

"Besides that!  Did you see why I'm coughing?"

"You can't rush a medical exam," the Crippler scolded.  "You need some patience.  Get it?  Patience?  Patients?  Eheheheh!"

"Ugh," muttered Chick.  He had finally found someone with a worse sense of humor than himself, but he wasn't in the mood to enjoy it.

The ambulance rolled up under the lift and peered up to look at Chick's undercarriage.  Chick squirmed, wishing that he hadn't let McQueen put him in restraints.  Maybe his engine wouldn't work, but he could at least hop away. . . .

"Can't you get to my engine through my hood?" Chick asked.  He didn't have a very good grasp of anatomy, but he was pretty sure the Crippler didn't need to be doing anything under him.  He got a hard poke between his front tires for his trouble.

"I'm the doctor," the Crippler repeated.  "I know what to do, and you don't." After a pause, the ambulance informed him, "You need to take better care of yourself.  You look pretty worn out under here."

"That," Chick growled through clenched teeth, "tends not to matter since most cars don't go around looking at my undercarriage!"

He heard a faint giggle from the Crippler.  "Oh really?  Not getting any, hunh?"  Before Chick could give an outraged reply, the ambulance asked, "How old are you, anyway?"

"That's none of your business!"

"I really should have a complete medical history, including your age, if I'm going to be your doctor."  Damned if the crazy truck wasn't purring as he rolled out from under Chick and lowered the race car to his eye level.

"You're _not_ going to be my doctor!  Trust me, after today I'm never coming back to this manufacturer-forsaken place," Chick sulked, even as he found himself staring into the Crippler's vivid blue eyes.  Chick had never seen eyes that blue before, the color of a police car's lights.  Despite being a monster truck, the ambulance's white paint job was pristine, and the red bar lights across his roof were polished to a shine.

The ambulance exhaled sharply.  "Well, if that's the way it is, racer boy. . . ."  He finally popped Chick's hood, obscuring the race car's vision although he could feel the Crippler poking around his engine.

"I see what the problem is. . . bad timing belt.  No wonder you always come in second, eheheh!"  The Crippler giggled so hard he could barely gasp the next lines.  "G-get it?  Your _timing_ is bad?"

Chick growled but stopped abruptly when something occurred to him.  "Wait. . . you know who I am?  Let me guess-- McQueen told you all about me, hunh?"  He closed his eyes in frustration.

"Yeah-- but I knew who you were before that."  The Crippler moved past Chick's peripheral vision to pick up a new belt then returned to his work.  "Chick Hicks, first place loser and cheater extraordinaire."

"Why you--!  I am _not_ a loser!  I won the Piston Cup!  And what would you know about racing anyhow?"  Still, Chick was more embarrassed than angry.  No wonder the Crippler had kept laughing at him.

"Oh yeah, I forgot about the Piston Cup. . . when you nearly killed another car to win."  Chick heard another chuckle from the ambulance; then the Crippler shut Chick's hood with a bang.  "There, done."

Chick was still trying to think of a retort to the Crippler's comment when he realized that his urge to cough was gone.  "Done?  You mean you fixed me that quickly?"  Chick tried to start his engine, and sure enough, it came right to life.

"Replacing a timing belt isn't engine surgery, eheheheh."  The Crippler flashed his red lights once, dazzling Chick's eyes.  "But anyway, yeah, I know you're a cheat and a loser.  Not bad looking for your age though. . . racer boy."

Chick spluttered.  "What. . . what are you talking about?"  He tugged on the restraints holding him on the lift.  "Hey, let me down from here!  My race--"

"You'll get there in plenty of time," the Crippler assured him.  "Just give me a moment to get a good look at ya. . . ."

Chick felt an almost painful warmth down his fuel line.  "Why?" he demanded although he knew what the Crippler was hinting at.  For some absurd reason, Chick just wanted to hear him say it.

"Eheheh, if you're not coming back here, this is my only chance to see you up close, right?"  The Crippler smirked, the well-formed mouth on his bumper twisting up a little.  "I always did think you were handsome," he murmured as he started driving around Chick in a slow circle.  "Even with all those gaudy sponsor stickers. . . and that mustache."

"Wh-what's wrong with my mustache?" Chick managed to get out even as he wondered how many years it had been since someone called him handsome.

"Oh, nothing. It just makes you look. . . well, eheheh, never mind about _that_."  The Crippler worked his way back around to Chick's front before speaking again.  "Well. . . you're even better-looking face to face than in your photo spreads, eheheh."

"I. . . ." The warm feeling inside Chick was growing, until he thought of something that made him go cold all over.  "McQueen put you up to this, didn't he?"

"Hmm?  He told me to repair you, yes.  He just wanted me to scare you a little, ehehe."

"No, I mean. . . he told you to say those things to me!"

"What things?"  The Crippler raised one half of his windshield.

Chick ground his teeth before mumbling, "That I'm handsome, that stuff.  He's probably listening right now, just waiting for me to say something stupid--"

"Oh, McQueen can't hear us.  I made sure he went off with that little girlie of his before I came in here," the Crippler giggled.  He chucked Chick under his front bumper with a tire then leaned forward conspiratorially.  "No, he didn't tell me to say that.  You really are good-looking. . . racer boy."

Although his fuel line was beginning to warm up again, Chick also felt a little. . . well, scared.  Not of what the ambulance might do to him, but because he _liked_ hearing the Crippler say he was good looking, and he liked seeing those beautiful eyes gazing at him.  _I've got to get out of here,_ Chick told himself.  _If I fooled around with him and it got out, I'd be done for.  He's a crazy monster truck-- and he's a **guy**._

"Okay, Crippler, you got your look," Chick finally said.  "Now let me out of these things!"  The Crippler's smirk faded, but he rolled around to one of Chick's back wheels and unbuckled the restraints.  Chick stretched his wheel out with relief, yet when the Crippler reached his front wheels, the race car looked at him thoughtfully: the ambulance actually looked unhappy.

"Uh, hey. . .  thanks for the repair," Chick muttered.

"It's not going to be free," said the Crippler, although he glanced up at Chick with a little smirk as he said it.

"How much do I owe you?" Chick asked.

The Crippler told him.

" _What_?  You son of a Buick--"

"You wanted to get fixed in time for your race, and I fixed you," chuckled the Crippler.  He finished with the restraints but didn't lower the lift; instead he sat in front of Chick and grinned.

"For that much money, I could have flown in a whole hospital!" Chick exploded.

"Tell you what, racer boy: I'll make a deal with you.  You pay me, I let you off the lift. . . then if you win this race you're so excited about, I'll give you back your money."

" _When_ I win the race," Chick corrected.  "I guess that means I'll have to come back to this hellhole of a town-- but fine.  It's worth the trip for that kind of money."

The Crippler was still smiling, although he looked a bit wistful around the windshield.  "Then I guess I'll be seeing you."  He turned to roll over to the lift controls, giving Chick the opportunity to eye his back bumper.

"W-wait."  At Chick's stammer, the ambulance paused then returned to him.

"Yeah?"

"I, uh. . . .  We have that doctor-patient privilege thing, right?  Where you can't tell anyone what I tell you?"

The Crippler shrugged his tires.  "Uh, yeah, sure."

"Then, I. . . think you're good-looking too."  Chick swallowed hard.  "And I don't say that to just anyone."

"Oh?  You have a thing for monster trucks then?"  The Crippler's wistful look had vanished, and he was now smirking instead.

"No!" retorted Chick, starting to wish he had just kept quiet.  "I just. . . the look works for you."

The Crippler rolled closer until his front bumper nearly touched Chick's.  "Really?" he purred.  "Didn't know you liked other guys, racer boy.  I do too. . . but there's not much to choose from out here."

"I, uh. . . w-well, it's been a long time-- years, actually.  It would ruin my image if anyone knew--"

"Your image as a cheater, hmm?"  The Crippler tempered his words by leaning in and nuzzling the corner of Chick's bumper.  "Heh, I won't tell. . . but if you start something and then cheat on _me_ , I'll run you down, boy."

"I'm not that kind of cheater," Chick growled, a little insulted despite the continued bumper-nuzzling.

"Okay, I'll trust you on that, eheheh."  The ambulance leaned down and gave Chick's front left tire a nibble.

"A-ah!  Watch it. . . ."  Chick shivered with pleasure at the intimate sensation.  "Mmm. . . ."

"Heh, you like that, racer boy?"  The Crippler glanced up at him with those entrancing eyes.  "I'll make you feel a lot better than that. . . ."  He slid a tire under Chick and traced it along the race car's front axle.

"Crippler," Chick groaned.  "I can't. . . I can't stay.  My race. . . ."  Part of him wanted the Crippler to ignore his protest, race be damned.  But the ambulance drew back anyway, looking a bit put out.

"Not up to going through with it, hunh?"

"It's not that!" snapped Chick.  "I just can't miss this race!"

"Unh hunh."  The ambulance's flat tone implied his disbelief-- and for once Chick cared what someone who wasn't tied to his professional success thought.

"I'll come back," the race car said in a low voice.  "Not just for my money either."

The Crippler narrowed his windshield but rolled forward again all the same.  "You promise?"

"Promise."  Chick took a deep breath, staring into the ambulance's eyes, then leaned forward on the lift as much as he dared.  He could reach just far enough to press his bumper against the ambulance's in the first kiss he had shared in a long time.

"Mmph. . . ."  The Crippler's eyes widened in surprise, then he put his large front tires on either side of Chick and held him steady.  The ambulance kissed Chick hard, making the race car moan and feel as if his fuel line had been set on fire.

"Remember, you promised," the Crippler whispered.  He planted another kiss on Chick's hood then finally lowered the lift.  After enjoying the feeling of solid ground beneath his tires once more, Chick paid the Crippler his exorbitant fee.

"See you soon, racer boy," the Crippler giggled.  He gave Chick's rear bumper a smack with his tire as the race car rolled out of the office, irritating and exciting Chick all at once.

"Feeling better, Chick?"  Great.  The last car he wanted to see was Lightning McQueen, but the red racer was waiting right outside the door.  "I thought the Crippler might have dissected you."

"I'm fine."  Chick glanced sideways at the Crippler as he emerged from Doc's office.  Apparently McQueen just thought Chick had had a particularly long medical treatment: if the brat had any idea what had really gone on, Chick would be getting a lot more teasing than this.  The Crippler looked down at the race car briefly, just long enough for Chick to meet his eyes and be amazed again at how incredibly blue they were.  Then the ambulance revved his engine loudly and sped off towards Ornament Valley.

"Well, you should be in top shape now, Thunder," McQueen went on.  "Break an axle."

"Bite me, McQueen," said Chick Hicks.


	2. Chapter 2

When Chick finally made it to the race track late that evening, he had to face one very irate crew chief.

"Where the hell were you?" Buck exploded as soon as he saw Chick.  "We thought you'd pulled a McQueen on us."

"Don't say that name around me _ever again_."  Chick slunk past the pickup truck towards his trailer.

Buck zipped around Chick and neatly blocked the trailer door.  "You're not going anywhere until you explain yourself.  We were about to send a search party out for you!"

Chick wouldn't have taken that kind of attitude from anyone else, but Buck _was_ the best crew chief around. . . and even though Chick would never admit it, Buck was usually right too.  "I broke down in Ornament Valley."

"I _told_ you to go to the doctor about that cough--"

"I'm fine!  It was just a bad timing belt.  The. . . the doctor there fixed it."

Buck's eyes widened.  "You mean the Hudson Hornet worked on you?"

"Nnnoo," Chick hedged.  "Not exactly."

"'Not exactly'?"

"He was out of town.  But there was another doctor, he fixed me, and I'm fine."

Buck gave Chick a rather doubtful look, but he didn't press the issue any farther.  "If you say so.  Go get yourself checked out with the pit crew though, just in case."

Chick rolled his eyes but complied.  As his team of green, mustached forklifts changed his tires and filled his gas tank, Chick looked around at the fans who had already gathered for the race the next day.  Chick had hoped the twin Mazda Miatas, Mia and Tia, would show up for the race.  They were inane chatterboxes who didn't appear to have a brain between the two of them, but they _did_ make him look good.

Unfortunately, there was no sign of them, or many other of Chick's fans for that matter.  A few of the RVs had turned out, but that was about it.  Typical fan behavior.  McQueen disappeared, so they all turned to Chick. . . then when McQueen decided to show up again, they went running back to him.

_Who needs them?_ Chick thought later that night as he tried to get some sleep in his trailer.  _I can win, fans or not._   It wasn't the lack of fans that was keeping him awake, anyhow; it was his memory of a certain monster truck.  Over and over, Chick imagined the feel of the Crippler's tire on his bumper, the look in his vivid eyes, and most of all, the taste of his kiss. Chick shook himself, trying to think about anything else.

_This is ridiculous!_ the race car told himself.  _What am I doing, getting involved with someone like that?  After I win, I'll go get my money and that'll be the end of it.  I'll leave Radiation Stinks and never see him again._   Stupidly enough, that thought hurt.  Chick _wanted_ to keep seeing the Crippler. . . but that kind of vulnerability could cost him everything.

Chick felt better upon seeing a clot of fans nearby when he emerged from his trailer the next morning.  True, it was a small clot, and there weren't nearly as many reporters as he would have liked to see, but it was better than nothing.  A couple of the reporters tried to question Chick about why he turned up late, but Buck deflected them with a terse announcement that Chick had had some engine work done.  Chick tried not to imagine what the tabloid headlines would say if the media knew what _else_ he had had done.

As the start of the race drew near, Chick pulled up to his spot in the starting lineup.  There were only about ten cars participating in the race, although Chick still thought that Hostile Takeover Bank could have been a little more careful to pick cars he could easily beat.  Nevertheless, Chick told himself that he could do it.  After all, there was a sizable cash prize for the winner, not to mention the money he would get back from the Crippler.

But it was more than the money.  In his mind, Chick kept hearing the ambulance call him "first-place loser."  It would have been easier to handle from McQueen or Strip Weathers, or even from the Hudson Hornet.  But to come from a car who didn't race, a car who had never met him before. . . a car he liked. . . .

_That's what people hear about me,_ Chick thought, mostly to distract himself from the "liking" part.  _That I always come in second._   Winning a Piston Cup hadn't changed that, and winning a little race like this wouldn't change it either. . . but it _could_ change what the Crippler thought of him.

"Gentlemen, start your engines!"  The announcer's call brought Chick back to the present moment, though not without a distinct tingling in his bumper.  He revved his engine and glared at the yellow backside of the car in front of him.

After the race's start, Chick passed the first few cars easily enough.  He worked on dodging a particularly stubborn racer who seemed to know exactly where Chick planned to go and always managed to cut him off.  As he concentrated on the race, Chick tuned out the announcer's chatter at first-- until he heard his name.

"--Chick Hicks finally decided to join us late last night-- seems he's still trying to catch up to Lightning McQueen.  Rumor has it that he broke down in Radiator Springs, where McQueen now has his racing headquarters.  Chick's camp isn't talking about the nature of his injuries."

_I am **not** trying to catch up to Lightning McQueen!_  Chick's engine roared furiously as he zipped around the car in front of him, coming less than three inches from scraping doors with his competitor.  The shocked racer swerved to the side and fell far back, but Chick didn't even notice.  He was too angry.

He hated Lightning McQueen.  He hated the announcer for even _mentioning_ Lightning McQueen.  He hated Radiator Springs for being Lightning McQueen's home.  If it weren't for McQueen, he would be number one, not just in title but in the fans' eyes.  He wouldn't be the loser, the second place contender.

"If it weren't for McQueen," Chick growled under his breath as he rounded the curve, "I wouldn't have met _him_!"  His voice rose to a shout as he sped down the straightaway.  The car in second place-- #28, sponsored by Nitroade-- stared at him.

"Hunh?  What?"

" _I wasn't talking to you!_ "  Chick passed #28 with a snarl.

There was only one car ahead of Chick now, and he would be damned if he didn't pass it.  He gunned his engine, surprised and pleased at how readily it responded.  As his fury abated and he drew closer to the lead car, he realized that he felt better, younger than he had in years.

_So he's a good doctor.  So what,_ Chick thought.  He caught up to the lead car on the next straightaway, passed him on the inside of the curve.  He didn't even notice who it was.

"I've never seen anyone respond like _that_ to an injury," the announcer declared.  "Chick Hicks just breezed past the other cars like they weren't even moving!  They must have some doctor in Radiator Springs!"

_You have no idea,_ Chick thought.

Chick was in first place when he crossed the finish line.  It was the first major race he had won since the Piston Cup, and probably the first race he had _ever_ won without cheating in some form or fashion.  Yet he hardly cared about the reporters that finally surrounded him or the fans who were having second thoughts about ditching him.  He just wanted to get back to Radiator Springs and get it over with, so he could get the Crippler off his mind.

" _What_?" Buck cried when Chick finally got away from the cameras and told the crew chief he wanted to go back to the little town.  "I thought you hated the place!"

"I do!  Of course I do.  But that-- that doctor said he'd refund the payment for my treatment if I won the race.  I want my money back."

Buck raised one half of his windshield.  "Are you sure this was a real doctor?"  At Chick's glower, he sighed, "Okay, okay.  But not today-- you need to rest.  I'm not going to be the one to blame when you have a nervous breakdown."

Chick slunk off to his trailer knowing exactly who would be to blame.

\--

The next morning, Chick was jolted awake as the trailer was hitched to his driver, a large Volvo semi.  Chick opened the door of his trailer and rolled out in irritation.

"What's going on?" he snapped.

Buck and a couple of Chick's pit crew were parked nearby, and they gave him odd looks.

"Uh, you wanted to go to Radiator Springs, right, boss?" Bruiser, one of the forklifts, asked.

"Yes, but not in this!"

His driver turned to look back at him.  "I'm not good enough for you, am I?"

Chick bit back a sigh.  Despite being a Volvo, the big truck had notoriously low self-esteem.  "Of course you're good enough for me.  But I don't want everyone to know the second I get there!  I'm driving by myself."

"Oh no, you're not!"  Buck rolled forward with a glare.  "I don't know what's going on with you, but I'm not going to let you go off by yourself and break down _again_."

"Buck, I am _not_ taking the trailer!"  The Volvo sniffled pathetically, and Bruiser darted around to his front to calm him down.

"Then I'm going with you," declared Buck.

"But. . . ."  The last thing Chick wanted was for his crew chief to meet the Crippler.  He could already hear the ambulance telling Buck all about what they had done in Doc Hudson's office.

"No buts," said Buck.  "Hostile Takeover will have me by the axles if anything else happens to you.  Either I'm going with you-- or we _all_ follow you."

Chick looked at his driver and the growing crowd of little green forklifts, and he had a horrible mental image of the whole lot of them trailing down the interstate after him.  "Okay, fine," Chick growled.  "Buck, you can go.  I'll catch up to the rest of you later, okay?"

"Sure, boss!" chimed the forklifts.  The truck sniffled again.

Once they were safely out on the interstate and away from the media, Buck gave Chick a stern sideways look.  "Okay, boss, time to fess up.  What's going on?"

"I told you, I'm going to get my money back!"

"Why?"

Chick glanced at him.  "I like money.  I like money a lot.  You should have noticed that by now."

"I don't mean why do you want your money back.  I mean, why are _you_ going to get it?" Buck asked.  "If you really hate Radiator Springs so much, you could have sent one of us back there for you."

Buck had a point, and Chick groped for an answer that he didn't quite believe himself.  "The Crip-- the doctor might not give it to anyone but me.  He didn't look very trusting."

Buck frowned.  "Then why were you so insistent on going alone?  Normally I can hardly get you out of your trailer-- now you won't set a tire in it."

"Breaking down out there was embarrassing enough," Chick muttered.  "I don't want to announce to everyone in town that I'm back when I show up in a trailer!  I'd never hear the end of it from McQueen if he knew I came back."

The crew chief was quiet for a few moments, then he announced, "It's a girl, isn't it?"

"A _what_?"

"You met some girl out there, and you're too embarrassed to admit that you've fallen for a hillbilly," challenged Buck.  "So this is all an elaborate ruse to keep us from finding out."

Chick started to protest, but then it occurred to him that maybe he shouldn't.  Better for Buck to think he had a crush on some woman than to know the real reason he was going back to Radiator Springs.

"Okay, okay."  Chick feigned resignation.  "Just don't tell anyone, all right?  I've got my reputation to think of."  _No kidding. . . ._

Buck chuckled, appeased.  "Don't worry about a thing, boss.  My fender's sealed."

By the time they reached Ornament Valley, the sun was sinking behind the desert's craggy mountain range.  "So just where is this doctor's office?" Buck asked, frowning at the abandoned shells of buildings that littered the countryside.

"Uh, I don't exactly know," Chick admitted.  "I saw him in the Hudson's office, but when he left, he was headed out this way.  He must live around here somewhere."

The closer they got to Radiator Springs, the more traffic they saw.  "I didn't know there were this many cars in the whole county," Buck mused.  "I wonder where they're all going."

"Shoooot," said a rusty old white car as he passed Chick and Buck.  "We're goin' to the rally!"

Buck blinked at him.  "What rally?"

"Th' monster truck rally, a' course!"

"Monster truck rally?"  Chick watched the old car drive past them and turn in at a run-down arena up ahead.  "Come on," Chick called to Buck as he followed the rusty car.  "I bet the doctor'll be here."

"Why?" asked Buck as he hurried after Chick.  "Does he work on monster trucks?"

"You could say that."

Chick and Buck took parking places near the top of the arena.  If the Crippler was participating in the rally, Chick wanted to be sure that he saw the ambulance before the Crippler saw him, just in case the Crippler decided to be. . . indiscreet.  To Chick's relief, Buck was distracted by a pretty maroon GMC Sonoma in the spot next to him, leaving the racecar free to scan the starting line.  At first he only saw two trucks there, neither of whom was the Crippler.  One was black with what appeared to be horns mounted on his roof, and the other was squat and purple.

Chick was relieved and disappointed at the same time.  If he couldn't find the Crippler, he wouldn't have to deal with the way the ambulance made him feel.  But then, he wouldn't get his money back either. . . and he _liked_ the way the ambulance made him feel.  However, the Crippler finally pulled up to the starting line with the other two monster trucks, leaving Chick no choice but to deal with his emotions.

Buck paused in his conversation with the Sonoma to lean over and ask, "So, do you see your doctor?"  Before Chick could answer, the announcer's voice came over the loudspeaker.

"Welcome to another excitin' rally here at the Rustbucket Race-o-Rama!  This-here's Mater, and tonight we got the usual big three competin'-- Count Spatula, the Crippler, and Ginormous!  Nobody ain't taken 'em on since Lightning McQueen put him on some monster truck tires a couple months ago.  The Count's been the winner ever since, but mebbe one a' the others can take the prize tonight."  Count Spatula, the one with the horns, was apparently a crowd favorite, for a chorus of boos arose at mention of him losing.

"Good grief," Buck muttered to Chick.  "I can't believe McQueen actually competed in something like this.  And everyone says _you_ don't have any class."

"Thanks, Buck," Chick grumbled.  He hunched down behind the car in front of him just in case the Crippler should look his way, but the ambulance seemed focused on the track.  As the flag dropped, the three trucks took off in a cloud of dust, with the purple one-- Ginormous, according to Mater-- giving an insane-sounding roar.

Chick watched the race intently.  He was interested in how well the Crippler raced: if he were going to call Chick a loser, he had better be a pretty damn good racer himself.  However, the ambulance didn't appear to even be trying.  He trailed after the other two, jumping from the track's ramps half-heartedly.  Chick had expected blaring sirens and flashing lights, but he got nothing.  After twelve laps, the race ended with Count Spatula in first place and Ginormous right on his bumper.  The Crippler came in a few seconds later, looking almost bored.

"Count Spatula done it again!" Mater informed the crowd, who cheered raucously.  "Ginormous done gave him a run for his money though.  But looks like the Crippler could use some of his own medicine tonight!"

"Idiot," growled Chick.

"Hunh?"  Buck glanced at him.

"He didn't even _try_ to win!  My grandmother could race better than that!  Why did he even bother to compete if he wasn't going to. . . ."  Chick trailed off as he realized that Buck was staring at him.  "Uh. . . I mean. . . ."

" _He's_ your doctor, isn't he?" the truck blurted out.  "You let a _monster truck_ work on you--"

"I didn't have a choice, okay?" Chick snapped.

"Y'all talkin' 'bout the Crippler?" the little Sonoma asked brightly, peering around Buck at Chick.  "I've heard he's actually a pretty good doctor.  He worked on my cousin, and his daddy used to be partners with Doc Hudson, 'fore Dr. C retired."  She frowned.  "The Crippler usually races better'n this though, has his sirens goin' an' everything.  Why, you can hear him a mile away, yellin' 'You're gonna need an _operation_!' an' that kinda thing."

Chick wanted to throttle her; that wasn't the kind of information Buck needed to hear.  Then he looked down at the monster trucks to find them heading for the arena's exit.  The Crippler and Spatula appeared to be arguing, and Ginormous was rolling along behind them with a vacant expression on his grill.  Buck followed Chick's gaze and frowned.

"Go get us some motel rooms in town," Chick muttered to Buck.  "I'll catch up to you later."

"Boss?"

Chick didn't reply; he was already weaving his way through the crowd to the nearest exit.  Once he was outside, he spotted the three trucks parked at an old gas station across the street.  A couple of young Blazers were gathered around Count Spatula to get his autograph.  While the trucks were distracted, Chick slunk across the street and hid behind one of the gas pumps, where he could hear the Blazers' eager chatter.  _A far cry from the twins,_ he thought.

After Spatula had stamped his tire print for the Blazers and they had driven off squealing, the horned truck turned to the Crippler and scowled.  "Vat is the matter vit you?  I have never seen you run so poorly before!"

"I just didn't feel like racing," the Crippler grumbled.

"This is vat you get for not practicing vit us--"

"We practice every day!" the Crippler snapped.  "Missing a couple days isn't going to hurt.  What's the point anyway?"  His already high-pitched voice rose with frustration.  "We have these stupid rallies every week.  We run the same way, we yell the same things, and the same cars come to see us every time.  None of it means anything!"

"Rargh?"  Ginormous gave him a hurt look and sniffled.  Spatula patted one of the purple truck's tires then glared at the Crippler.

"Vat else are you going to do?  Be a doctor vit no patients?"

"I have patients!"

"Yes, you have me and Gin.  Let us see you make a living on two patients.  Just because you vorked on a race car _vonce_ , you think you are too good for us, no?" the horned truck retorted.

"I didn't say that," muttered the Crippler.

"Maybe not-- but vor the last two days you have not practiced vit us, and all you talk about is your famous patient!  Vell, vat if your precious race car doesn't come back?  Who vill you vork on then?"

The Crippler turned away from them and glared out at the road.  "He'll come back.  He said he would."

"Even if he does-- he von't stay.  He'll take his money and leave.  Then vere vill you be?"  When the Crippler didn't answer, Spatula's expression softened a little, and he rolled toward the ambulance.  "I am sorry, my friend-- but ve three have been compatriots for a long vile.  I am only vorried that you vill be hurt."

"Hmph.  What's there to be hurt about?" said the Crippler, still not looking at his friends.  "Maybe I just. . . made a mistake.  He's probably straight anyway.  Despite the mustache."

"Crippler--"

"And it's not like you can really care about someone you just met.  Right?"

Spatula sighed, apparently giving up.  "Ve vill see you tomorrow, all right?  You vill feel better after some rest."  He and Ginormous drove to the road, then paused and looked back as the Crippler went inside the gas station.  Ginormous made an inarticulate grumbling noise and started back towards the station, but Spatula put a tire out to stop him.  He murmured something to the purple truck, then they both turned and drove away.

Chick sat behind the gas pump for a long time.  At first he just studied his mustache in the pump's shiny surface and wondered what about it made him look. . . not straight.  It was an easier thing to think about than the rest of the conversation, but the diversion didn't last very long.

_He wanted me to come back,_ Chick thought.  _He. . . missed me. . . ._   Stupidly, the thought made Chick happy, even though he had planned to say goodbye to the ambulance that very night.  The race car looked around the gas pump at the station.  Its windows were boarded up, but he could see light peeking out from behind the edges of the boards.  _Does he live **there**?_ Chick wondered.

Chick crept closer and tried to look in, but there were no gaps in the boards big enough for him to see through.  Finally, Chick drove up to the garage door of the gas station and paused, fidgeting.  His nerve almost failed him, and he considered just driving away-- but then he remembered the Crippler saying, "He'll come back.  He said he would."

Chick took a deep breath and reached out a tire to knock on the door.


	3. Chapter 3

"It's open," the Crippler muttered from inside.  Chick nudged the door up a little bit with his tire then gave it a good shove.  It rolled up, allowing Chick to see inside the station.  The Crippler's. . . office? home? was cluttered with parts and medical equipment, and the dominant feature was a lift in the center of the room.  Everything in the station appeared to be almost worn out-- if not actively falling to bits.  Although Doc Hudson's equipment was a little dated, the Crippler's couldn't even compare.  The ambulance had his back to Chick and seemed to be tinkering with an engine.

"Ugh, how can you take someone's engine out and. . . and _touch_ it?" Chick blurted out before he could think.  He had to work hard not to toss the oil he had drunk earlier that day.  The Crippler jumped and did the fastest three-point turn Chick had ever seen.

"Chick!  What are _you_ doing here?"

"Uh, I won the race, so I came to get my money back?"  Chick rolled his eyes then forced himself to add, "And that's _all_ I'm doing here."  The Crippler's own eyes widened then narrowed, but he only nodded, bobbing on his monster truck carriage.  He moved forward and started rummaging through a stack of parts, then he glanced at Chick.

"Do you mind getting out of the doorway?  You're letting in a draft."

"Excuse _me_ ," Chick snapped.  Things weren't getting off to a very good start-- but that was probably for the best.  If they were bickering, it would be easier for Chick to ignore his feelings for the ambulance.  He moved inside the station and shut the garage door as the Crippler produced a wad of money from the clutter and tossed it to Chick.  It landed at Chick's tires, and he looked down at it.

"That's it?  You don't want. . . proof or anything?"

"I believe you."

"You. . . believe me?"  Chick stared up at the Crippler in amazement.  He couldn't remember the last time anyone had believed him about _anything_.  When the ambulance didn't answer, Chick looked down at the money again.  "And you didn't spend any of it?"

"Wasn't mine to spend."  The Crippler turned back to his counter and fidgeted with an oil filter.

"I mean, you had this much cash just sitting here, and. . . well, this place looks like it could _really_ use some money put into it, but you-- what?"  Chick edged forward slightly.  "What do you mean, it wasn't yours?"

"I knew you were going to win."

" _What_?" Chick gaped.  "You said I was a loser!  You said I always came in second!  You--"

"I knew if I pissed you off enough, you'd make sure you won," the Crippler interrupted, still not looking at Chick.  "Did you cheat?"

Chick wasn't sure whether to be touched, annoyed, or insulted.  "No, I didn't cheat!  You think I can't win a race without cheating?"

"You think I can't be trusted with your money?" the ambulance retorted, finally turning to face Chick again.  "Just because my office doesn't meet _your_ high standards, doesn't mean it's not good enough for my patients."

"What, all two of them?" Chick snarled.

The Crippler blinked at him then glared.  "How did you know that?"

"Uh. . . know what?"

"How many patients I had."  The ambulance rolled forward rather threateningly.  "How long have you been here?"

"N-not long," stammered Chick.  "My crew chief and I came in this afternoon, and we went to the rally, but--"

"I mean how long have you been _here_ \-- wait, you went to the rally?"

Keeping up with the conversation was getting to be about as hard as keeping up with McQueen in a race.  "Yeah, we did.  So?"

"So you saw me race."

"Yeah, and you sucked!"  If the Crippler was going to be pissed at him, at least it would be for a reason Chick could control, not because he got caught eavesdropping.

Surprisingly, the Crippler didn't seem to get mad; instead, he slumped down on his carriage and looked away.  "I wasn't trying."

"Obviously, if you let that vampire wannabe beat you!  I bet you're ten times better than he is," Chick said before he could catch himself.

The Crippler gave the faintest hint of a smile.  "Don't let Spatula hear you said that-- he'd squish you, racer boy."

Chick looked around the cluttered room again then down at his money.  He was starting to feel guilty about the whole situation, especially for what had amounted to leading the Crippler on.  _He must be confused-- first he thinks I want him, then that I don't.  But I can't get any further involved with him-- especially now that Buck knows about him!  I'll be lucky if no one else finds out. . . ._

"Uh, look," the race car finally said.  "Just keep the money.  Get yourself some instruments that won't give your patients oil-poisoning."

Crippler opened his mouth but all that came out at first was a little surprised squawk of his siren.  "Wait a minute.  You're being _nice_ about something."

"I am not!" Chick snapped.  "I'm-- I'm being arrogant because you need that cash a lot more than I do!  And it would be bad for my image if the media found out that I took money from a rural health clinic or whatever the hell this place is.  And anyway. . . you earned it," he finished in a lower voice.

The Crippler was quiet for a moment, then he came forward and took the money between his tire treads.  Chick reversed back to the garage door; he didn't want to be reminded how nice it felt to be close to the ambulance.

"Fine," the Crippler muttered, sticking the money in a drawer.  "The lift was about to give out anyway, so I'll spend it on that."

"Fine.  Great, lovely."  Chick caught the door in his back tire and lifted it, then backed out of the station.  "Knock yourself out."

The ambulance rolled over to the door and looked out at him.  Chick found himself pinned by the bright blue eyes that had been haunting him for the past two days.  "I guess you're leaving tomorrow?  Back to your life of fame and fortune?"

"Yeah.  First thing.  Bright and early."

"Yeah, well."  The Crippler reached up and started lowering the door.  "Take care of yourself, racer boy."

"I--"  The garage door shut before Chick could get anything else out.  He scowled at the door.  "Yeah.  Night.  Have a nice life," he muttered, then he pulled out onto the highway and headed for Radiator Springs.

The pitted highway was rough going for a car with no headlights, and Chick ran through more than his share of pot holes before he made it to the edge of town.  As he passed the drive-in theater, he noticed Buck in the front row with the little Sonoma at his side.  Grumbling, Chick drove down Radiator Springs' main street.  He only saw one motel-- the Cozy Cone-- and he was dismayed to see Sally Carrera at the front desk as he pulled in.

"Well, well, Mr. Hicks," the Porsche commented.  "To what do we owe this honor?"

"Did my crew chief get me a room here?" Chick asked, ignoring her question.

"Pick-up truck, green, no mustache?"  Sally raised one half of her windshield.

"Yeah, that's him."

"Cones five and six," announced the Porsche.  "Take your pick."

Chick started to his room without another word, but Sally's voice stopped him.  "Hey, Chick?"

"What?" he growled through clenched teeth, looking back at her.

"How did _you_ end up with such a nice guy for a crew chief?"

"I hired him," Chick snapped.

"And he stayed with you?"

Glowering, Chick turned around to face her again.  "Yes, he's been with me for more than ten years!  I've _never_ lost a member of my pit crew.  Not a single one."

Sally blinked.  "Really?  The money must be better than I thought."

"For your information," Chick snarled, "my pit crew likes me.  My pit crew _appreciates_ me.  I respect them, and they respect me.  Other racers probably pay more, but my crew is loyal, and they know I need them."

Sally looked rather taken aback.  "O. . . kay."  Chick turned to leave again; as he was driving off, he heard her add, "If you respected everyone else, maybe they'd like you too."

Chick locked himself in cone number six and tried to sleep.  So what if he didn't respect everyone.  No one respected _everyone_. . . and Chick respected the cars who deserved it, like his pit crew who worked long and hard for him without complaining.  He wouldn't be where he was today without them, and he knew it.  He wouldn't do anything to jeopardize their happiness because he needed them.

_I guess I **was** pretty short with Buck, though,_ Chick thought ruefully.  He looked out through the cone-shaped room's window to watch for the truck to come back from his date.  _I'll apologize, at least._   While he waited, he made a mental list of the cars who _didn't_ deserve his respect.

Lightning McQueen and Sally Carrera for starters.  Doc Hudson because he was a pompous ass. Count Spatula because that fake accent made him sound like an idiot.  Ginormous because, apparently, he _was_ an idiot.  Rusty cars.  Slow cars (unless they were elderly, in which case they had a right to be slow, but only if they did it in the right-tire lane).   Basically, everyone _but_ his pit crew.

But maybe he could convince himself to respect the Crippler too.  It had to be pretty tough doctoring anybody-- especially a couple of insane monster trucks-- in settings like the run-down garage, not to mention having to compete with Doc Hudson for what little business there was.  He _was_ a good doctor.  And pretty damn good-looking for a monster truck, especially with those lights on his roof. . . .

_I wonder when he uses them,_ Chick wondered with a yawn.  During surgery?  (Good doctor aside, Chick prayed to the manufacturer that he would never have to undergo surgery with the Crippler.)  In a race when he actually tried to win?  On the mat?  And what would that be like anyway, not just kissing the Crippler but actually. . . doing it. . . .

By the time Buck and the Sonoma got back from their date, Chick was fast asleep.  Buck peered in through the window of Chick's cone and chuckled at the sight of his boss snoring.

"I had a real good time tonight," the little maroon truck said shyly.

"I did too, Sunny."  Buck gave her a tentative nuzzle on the bumper. "Maybe I can convince the boss to let me stay on a few days.  We don't have a race coming up for a while. . . ."

"I'd like that."  Sunny giggled and gave him a quick kiss before backing out into the street.  "I'll meet you at Flo's for breakfast!  Sweet dreams!"

"Night, Sunny."  With a smile, Buck watched her drive off down the street, then he backed into his cone for the night.  Whatever insane reason the boss had for coming to Radiator Springs-- and it seemed more insane than ever after the rally-- Buck was glad to be there.

\--

Chick woke up early the next morning and went over to Flo's for breakfast, before Buck had emerged from his cone.  Normally Chick preferred to sleep in, but his thoughts-- and empty tank-- had kept him from dozing off again.  He was up so early, there was no sign of anyone at the café except for Flo herself.

"Morning," the Cadillac said, setting a can of oil down in front of Chick.

"Yeah.  Morning," Chick muttered.  Might as well be nice to the old girl, since the V8 Café was the only place to get fuel in Ornament Valley.

"So what are you doing back out here anyway, honey?" Flo asked, looking Chick over.

"I, uh. . . came to watch the races at the Rustbucket."  It was as good an excuse as any, Chick thought.  "Keeping an eye on the competition, that sort of thing."

"Oh, well that's a good--  Hey, there's Doc!"  Flo rolled to the edge of the parking lot to greet the Hudson.

_Great,_ thought Chick, trying to hunch down behind the nearest gas pump.  Doc Hudson was one of the last cars he wanted to see.  As if that weren't enough, there was another car with Doc, an old white Chevrolet ambulance with three round red lights on his roof.

"Welcome home, boys," Flo chuckled to the pair.

"Morning, Flo."  Doc drove into the parking lot and pulled up by a pump.  "It's good to be back.  Every time I go to one of these conferences, it seems to take more out of me than the last time."

"And how are you, Dr. C?" Flo asked the ambulance politely as she brought them both some oil.

"Glad I retired," he replied in a gruff voice and gestured to Doc with one tire.  "I don't know how this old pile of spare parts convinced me to go with him."  He tempered the words with a little smile at Doc.

In the meantime, Chick was slinking farther and farther behind the pump and motioning towards Flo with a tire.  He was hoping to pay her and escape before Doc noticed him, but as always, fate was against him.  The Hudson glanced Chick's way then looked at him sharply.

"Chick Hicks?"  Doc glared at him.  "What're _you_ doing here?"

"I. . . uh. . . ."  Before Chick could give his "checking out the competition" excuse, the old Chevy looked out at the road and narrowed his windshield slightly.  Chick followed his gaze to see the Crippler driving up.

"Lovely," Chick muttered under his breath.  "Just great."  But the Crippler didn't even notice him; his attention was fixed on the other ambulance.

"I guess you didn't kill any patients while you were filling in for Doc?"  Dr. C-- whatever that was short for-- said sardonically.

"Good to see you too, Dad," the Crippler snapped.  Chick started; even though the Sonoma had said the Crippler's father had been Doc Hudson's partner, Chick hadn't connected him with the pristine old ambulance before him.  He couldn't imagine any car more different from the wild Crippler.

"You should have gone to the conference instead of me," the older ambulance went on, ignoring his son's comment.

"Someone had to take care of patients here!" the Crippler said as he joined the others in the parking lot.  "In fact, there was a race car who--"

" _I_ could've done that," Dr. C interrupted.  " _I_ know all the stuff they teach ya at those conferences.  _You_ could have learned something, if you weren't more interested in racing those insane friends of yours than in practicing medicine."

Startled, Chick looked at Doc for some sort of explanation, but the Hornet just shrugged his tires with an expression that said, "I don't know, either."  Chick handed Flo the money for his oil and started quietly to back out of the parking lot before the Crippler noticed him.

Then the Chevy said something that made Chick stop: "If you don't shape up, you'll never be anything but a failure as a doctor."  Chick knew what it was like to be called a failure-- hell, he knew what it was like to _be_ a failure-- and it wasn't a good feeling.

"He isn't a failure!" Chick snapped.  The three doctors and Flo all turned to stare at the race car, who was now backed halfway into the road.  Chick cringed a little, wishing he hadn't said anything, but by then it was too late.  He pulled back into the parking lot as the Crippler rolled towards him a little before stopping.

"Chick!" he squawked.

"Who're you?" Dr. C asked, squinting at the green race car.

"Chick Hicks?  2005 Piston Cup winner?"  Chick rolled his eyes.  "Never mind.  The Cri-- your son worked on me a couple days ago, and-- and it was the best damn tune-up I've ever had.  He's a _wonderful_ doctor!  I've never felt this good before in my life!"

The Chevy looked at Chick suspiciously, then at the Crippler.  " _You_ worked on a race car?  And you _fixed_ him?"

"He had a bad timing belt."  The Crippler as watching Chick instead of his father.  "I just replaced it."

Chick was compelled to meet the ambulance's eyes as he said, "You did more than that.  You made me feel young again."  The Crippler's lights flickered as Chick turned back to the Chevy.  "So he's not a failure.  No one's really a failure until they get called one so many times, they don't know any different."

"Well my goodness," Flo said after a moment.  "I had no idea you were so full a' wisdom, honey."  Doc chuckled, causing Chick to grumble and decide that anything else he said would only fuel the flames of amusement.  Still, Dr. C and the Crippler weren't smiling as Chick put himself in reverse and slunk out of the parking lot.

_I've got to get out of here before everyone in town finds out he worked on me,_ Chick thought as he sped back towards the Cozy Cone.  _Or before I run my big mouth so much, he figures out how I feel about him. . . ._


	4. Chapter 4

When Chick pulled up at the motel, Buck was only just emerging from his room.  The green truck grinned at Chick, looking entirely too happy.

"Morning, boss!  Did you have a nice--"

"We're leaving," Chick said, gesturing to the highway with a tire.

"Leaving?  But I told Sunny. . . ."  Buck trailed off as Chick glared at him.

"Who's Sunny?" the race car demanded.

"That truck I met last night, the Sonoma," Buck reminded Chick.  "I promised her I'd have breakfast with her."

"Then you'd better make it a _quick_ breakfast."

"Actually, boss. . . I wanted to ask a favor," said Buck.  "Since you don't have another race for a while, can I have a few days off?"

"Look, can't this wait?"  Chick rolled back and forth in front of his crew chief, unable to keep still.  "I'll give you all the vacation time you want, but we can work it out when we get home!"  When Buck didn't reply, Chick stopped and looked at him closely.  "Wait a minute.  You mean. . . you want a few days off _here_?"

"That's right."

"Because of some truck you just met last night?"  Chick's voice rose with frustration.

"Yes."  When Chick opened his mouth again, Buck narrowed his windshield and spoke over his boss.  "Some truck I just met who is _sane_ and _not a monster truck._ "

Chick's front bumper dropped open.  "Hey, just what are you trying to imply?"

"Only that the tire can't call the oil filter black."

Chick was quiet for a moment, then he sighed.  "Fine.  Whatever.  You can have a week.  I'll even pay that uppity Porsche for your room on one condition."

"What's that?"

"That you don't say a word about me and. . . and _him_ to anyone-- here or back home."  Chick added with a groan, "Especially those gossiping forklifts!  It would be all over the news in an hour if Bruiser found out."

"Fine, it's a deal."  Buck's expression softened, and as Chick started towards Sally's office, the pickup added, "Thanks, boss."

"Mmn.  I'll see you in a few days."  By the time Chick had paid the Porsche for their rooms and reserved Buck's for another week, his crew chief had left for the V8 Café.  Chick waited at the Cozy Cone a few more minutes to give the trio of doctors time to clear out of the Café; the last thing he wanted was to have to drive past them again on his way out of town.

When Chick finally did edge past the V8, there was no sign of the doctors, only Buck and Sunny sharing a quart of oil.  She _was_ pretty cute for a pick-up truck, Chick decided.  _More power to you, Buck,_ he thought as he drove out of town.

Ornament Valley was quiet as Chick headed for the interstate.  It was still fairly early, and Chick had the road to himself.  It was peaceful in a way, but lonely too.  He couldn't understand why Lightning McQueen wanted to live out there.  Yeah, the landscape was pretty and all, but Chick could feel sand grinding in his gears and dust rattling in his throat.

He slowed down as he neared the Rustbucket arena.  It was as deserted as the highway, but when Chick looked towards the gas station across the street, he saw the Crippler parked outside.

"Damn," Chick muttered.  What to do-- drive on quickly and pretend the ambulance wasn't there?  It was what Chick _meant_ to do. . . but when the Crippler called out to him, Chick couldn't bring himself to keep driving.  He turned into the gas station and stopped a few yards away from the ambulance, facing him.

"So.  You're leaving," said the Crippler as he looked down at the shorter race car.

"Yeah.  Like I said.  Bright and early."  Chick scuffed at the cracked concrete with one tire.  The guilty feeling was coming back, but it was mixed with a sad feeling too.  _I'll never see him again after today. . . ._

"Thanks," the ambulance said, interrupting Chick's thoughts.  "For standing up for me back there, I mean.  Don't think it'll change Dad's mind about me, but it was nice to hear a second opinion."  He grinned unnervingly.  "Second opinion?  Get it?"

"Yeah.  Real funny."  Chick studied one of the dry gas pumps to avoid having to meet the Crippler's eyes as he went on.  "But I meant it.  He didn't have any business calling you a failure when you fixed a Piston Cup winner."

"Yeah, well."  They sat in silence a few moments, then the Crippler reversed towards the station door.  "Like I said, racer boy, take care of yourself."  Chick looked at him and found himself caught by the ambulance's blue gaze.

"Wait!"  Chick spoke without thinking then fished for an excuse to stay there a little longer.  "Before I go, I, uh. . . I think I might have a problem.  With-- with my fuel line."

"Something else wrong with you?"  The Crippler rolled his eyes.  "To be a rich, famous race car, you certainly have poor medical care.  But you can't spend hours on the road with a bad fuel line."  He opened the door to the station and backed in, gesturing with a tire for Chick to follow him.  "Come on in."

Chick rolled into the gas station and closed the garage door behind him.  At the Crippler's gesture, the race car moved gingerly onto the rickety lift, clinging to it with his tires as the ambulance raised it into the air until Chick was on his eye level.  The Crippler flipped up Chick's hood and peered inside.

"It looks fine to me," the Crippler announced, poking under Chick's hood with one tire.  "What kind of problem are you having with it?"

It helped that Chick couldn't see the Crippler's face at the moment; instead he looked at the bright yellow balloons on his own hood.  "It's been feeling strange-- warm, almost hot sometimes."

"We _are_ out in the desert, ehehe."

"I know _that_ , you Hippocratic oaf!"  Chick paused and chuckled.  "Heh, 'cos you doctors take the Hippocratic _oath_ , and--"

"I get it, I get it."  To Chick's dismay, the Crippler closed his hood and looked him in the eyes.  "So you don't think it's from environmental factors?  When does it happen, after you've been driving a long time?"

"Nnno," Chick hedged.  "It. . . it happens when I'm around _you_ ," he said in a quick mumble.

The Crippler was silent as he moved his eyes over Chick's face.  "Make up your mind," he finally said.  "Why did you come back here, really?"

"I thought it was for the money-- I _told_ myself it was for the money.  But. . . ."  Chick sighed.  "I guess I can lie to myself as well as I can to you."

"I like you, racer boy," said the Crippler.  "But you drive me crazy."

"Short drive," commented Chick, although he had to smile as he said it.  "I. . . like you too.  It was just. . . well, you can guess what they'd say about me if anyone found out about us.  But then, they've already said everything _else_ about me, and I never really cared as long as I was getting attention-- because it's like they say, no publicity is bad publicity, and as long as they're talking about _me_ and not McQueen, I can't complain if they say. . . uh. . . ."  Chick trailed off, having forgotten his point.

The Crippler arched his windshield at Chick.  "Just who are 'they'?  They sound a lot like my old man.  And you know what _he_ would say if I told him I was having a fling with a race car?  A _guy_ race car?  And what the fans at the Rustbucket would think?"

Chick blinked.  He had never considered that the Crippler might be worried about _his_ reputation. In fact, up to that point, Chick had never thought about anyone's reputation but his own.

"Uh. . . yeah, I guess I see your point."  Chick sighed and managed another little smile.  "So I guess this really is goodbye, then. . . seems like it's better for both of us."

"Mmn."  The Crippler looked away then turned his gaze back to the race car.  "Do you have to leave today?"

Taken aback, Chick said, "Well. . . I don't have another race anytime soon-- in fact, my crew chief is staying here another week to be with some pickup truck he met.  But. . . wouldn't those loony buddies of yours figure out something was up, even if no one else did?"

The Crippler grinned abruptly.  "Did I say I _cared_ what other cars would say about us, racer boy?"  He rolled closer to Chick until their bumpers nearly touched then went on in a lower voice.  "I wanna be with you, Chick.  Put aside your ego for one minute and be honest with me.  What do _you_ care about?"

"Winning," said Chick, "and money. . . because those things make me feel good.  But you. . . you made me feel better than either one ever did.  I _was_ being honest when I said you made me feel young again."  He closed his eyes and blurted out, "I want to be with you, and I'll even spend another week in this manufacturer-forsaken county to do it."

Chick felt the Crippler run the treads of one tire under his front bumper, then the ambulance leaned forward to kiss him. 

"I thought I knew you pretty well, racer boy, but you've surprised me," the ambulance said afterwards.

"Hey, I still have some surprises left in me," Chick protested as he looked up at the Crippler.

"I guess you do, ehehe.  I didn't expect you to give me your money back either."  The ambulanced glanced around the run-down garage.  "Although after you left last night, I started wondering if it's worth pouring any more money into this place.  Maybe it's time to pack up and start over somewhere else."

Chick wasn't sure what the Crippler was thinking, but the race car felt a nervous pulse through his own fuel line.  "The racing circuit could always use more medics," Chick pointed out.  "In fact, a lot of cars have private doctors on their pit crews now."

"Really."  The Crippler studied him, a little smile curling on his white bumper.  "Think you could put in a word for me, racer boy?"

"I could do that."  Chick's mind was filled with thoughts of those intense blue eyes following him in every race, of that high-pitched voice cheering him on. . . of private examinations in his hotel room.  "Although. . . I don't have a doctor on _my_ crew. . . if you think you'd be ready to start a new job at the end of the week. . . ."

The Crippler's red lights flickered as his smile grew.  "You sure the rest of your crew won't mind?"

Chick grinned.  "Not if they want to keep their jobs."

The Crippler didn't reply as he lowered the lift and placed Chick back on solid ground.  The ambulance rolled forward to place his huge front tires on either side of the race car and squeezed him gently.  Chick closed his eyes and even allowed himself to snuggle against the Crippler's tires as he felt a soft kiss on the top of his hood. 

"I'll talk to my pit crew tonight," Chick whispered, "and tell him that I'm hiring a private physician."

The Crippler giggled the same mad laugh Chick had heard when they first met.  "Oh yes. . . definitely private."

\--

A few weeks later, Chick ran what was possibly his best race ever.  His fans still hadn't all returned, but he hardly cared about them when he took first place again-- and he didn't care about them at all when he heard an ambulance siren screeching at him from the pit as he crossed the finish line.  After collecting his prize, Chick joined his crew in the pit.

"Nice work, boss," Buck congratulated him.  Sunny, who had come to the race as Buck's guest, nodded excitedly.

"Yeah. . . boss."  The Crippler looked down at Chick with a smirk on his grill.  "Looks like your fuel line held out after all."

"Mr. Hicks!"  Several reporters came racing towards the team before Chick could reply.  "Is it true that you hired this monster truck as part of your pit crew?"

"He's really your personal physician?"

"He's really a _doctor_?" Kori Turbowitz asked skeptically.

"He's here on a trial appointment," Chick explained for what felt like the fiftieth time.  "If he stays on after this race. . . well, that's up to him."

"And if you don't mind, I need to examine my patient," the Crippler added with a mad giggle that sent the reporters scattering.  It seemed that a good story wasn't worth the risk of hanging around an insane monster truck.

"Maybe _now_ Dad will believe that you hired me, once it's on the news," the Crippler chuckled as they headed for Chick's trailer.  "If he doesn't, I guess it'll sink in when I go back for all my equipment, ehehe."

"Does that mean you're going to stay?"

The Crippler grinned as he backed into Chick's trailer.  "If you want me.  But there's just one thing. . . ."

"Yeah?"  Chick followed him in and closed the door behind him.  The ambulance leaned down and nipped at Chick's hood.

"Do I have to keep calling you 'boss'?"

"Actually," Chick said faintly as he tilted his front bumper up, "I like being your racer boy better than being your boss."

"Good."  The Crippler kissed him hard on the mouth.  "And since you _are_ mine, I'll have to take good care of you."  He rolled forward enough to put his large front tires on either side of Chick and hold him as he nuzzled the race car's roof.  "I want this to last for a long time."

Chick settled down between the Crippler's tires with a little smile.  "So do I."


	5. Chapter 5

_Two months later. . . ._

Buck Reeves, crew chief to 2005 Piston Cup winner Chick Hicks, groaned to himself as the sound of yelling drew closer.  His boss's "personal physician" had insisted on accompanying them to Chick's headquarters that afternoon to watch the race car's practice laps. . . not the best of ideas considering how much Chick and the Crippler had been bickering lately.

 _The boss can't concentrate with that ambulance yelling at him all the time,_ Buck thought as he watched the shouting match approaching him.  But then, Buck realized that the Crippler _did_ have a valid reason for yelling: it was his job to look after Chick's health, and manufacturer knew that Chick didn't take the best care of himself.

"You're gonna lose a wheel driving like that!" the Crippler bellowed in his high-pitched voice as Chick rounded the turn nearest Buck.  The ambulance was speeding along the inside of the track, bouncing on his huge monster-truck tires.  "Ya moron!"

Chick had apparently had enough; he slammed on his brakes and skidded to a stop right in front of Buck.  The green race car turned to face the Crippler as the ambulance jolted to a halt as well.

"And why do you _think_ I drive like this?  _I'm a race car!_   I was built to drive like this!" Chick roared.

"You weren't built to wobble back and forth like that!" countered the Crippler.  He flashed the red lights on his roof for good measure.

"I wasn't wobbling; I was _weaving_ ," Chick said in a huff.  "I have to practice my _moves_."

"Oh, so you can knock other cars off the track when they start to get ahead of you?" the Crippler snapped with narrowed eyes.

"If you're implying that I'm still cheating--"

"I don't have to imply it!  I saw your last race!"  The Crippler's voice, which was unstable even on a good day, rose to an ear-splitting pitch, causing Buck to wince.  "You told me you weren't going to cheat anymore, and then you go and--"

"What's it to you whether I cheat or not?" snarled Chick.  "Like _monster trucks_ have so much integrity."

"I don't care _if_ you cheat," the ambulance retorted, rolling forward so that he would have been bumper to bumper with Chick if he hadn't been several feet taller.  As it was, he had to lean down to glare at his boss/patient/boyfriend.  "It's _how_ you cheat!  In case you haven't noticed, you're getting _old_.  You're gonna tear yourself apart if you keep running into other cars like that!"

 _Oh boy,_ Buck thought with an inward groan.  _Now he's done it._

Chick's eyes narrowed, and he raised himself up as far as possible on his tires.  " _I am **not** old!_   And I can take care of myself!  I don't know why the hell I hired you in the first place-- I never needed a full-time physician before, and I don't need one now!  I don't need _you_."

 _Oh boy times two_ , thought Buck.  _Now **he's** done it too._   Although he had a feeling that it was already too late, the crew chief rolled forward to try to stop the argument.  _Here comes Buck Reeves, damage control._

"Look, boss," Buck interrupted, "we're all tired.  Why don't you--"

Both Chick and the Crippler rounded on him and snarled, "You keep out of this!"  Then the Crippler went back to glowering down at Chick.

"You don't need me, hunh?  Then I don't know why you hired me either!  You're determined to run yourself into the ground, so Chrysler knows why you bother to pay a doctor if you won't listen to him.  Or to the cars who love you."  The ambulance revved his engine loudly.  "Have it your way!  I _quit_."

He spun on his tires and zoomed towards the track's exit as Chick spluttered indignantly.

"What?  You can't quit!" Chick shouted.  "None of my crew has _ever_ quit his job!"

The ambulance half-turned to glare back at him.  "I'm not just quitting the job.  I'm quitting _you_."  He reared up on his back tires and sped out of the track.

For the first time since Buck could remember, Chick seemed to be speechless.  The truck looked at his boss nervously, waiting for an explosion that never came.  Instead, Chick just stared at the track's exit, mouth working beneath his mustache.  Then, after a moment, the race car finally spoke. . . quietly.

"He's wrong," Chick muttered.  "I _do_ listen to you guys, right?"

"Well. . . ." Buck hedged.  "You listen to _me_ , anyway.  Most of the time."

"Yeah, because you tell me the _truth_ instead of making up total crap about me getting old!"  Chick turned back to the track and revved his engine.

"Boss. . . ."  Buck hesitated, not sure how to proceed.  "I don't think his point was that you don't listen to _us_."

"I don't care what his point was!"  Chick squinted at the track in front of him.  "Why _should_ I care what a crazy monster truck. . . ambulance. . . whatever he is thinks?"

"Because he loves you," Buck suggested, raising one half of his windshield.  "Or did you miss that subtle hint?"

Chick looked up and stared at Buck, then the race car narrowed his eyes and focused on the track again.  "He wasn't talking about _himself_ \-- he was talking about you guys.  And he didn't mean _love_ love.  He meant, you know. . . money kind of love.  Because I pay you to take care of me, so you expect me to listen to you.  And I _do_ listen to you, so he's not even right about me not listening to the cars that love me, money kind of love me, I mean--"

"Never mind!  Just forget it," Buck groaned.  "If you don't care about him any more than that, it's just as well that he left.  It'll be a lot more peaceful around here with him gone, at least."  The crew chief left the track himself; let the boss finish practice on his own if he were going to be difficult.  _Maybe it's time I took a vacation,_ Buck thought tiredly.

\--

After a full day and night of driving, the Crippler reached Ornament Valley just after dawn.  He hadn't been back home since he joined Chick's crew a couple months before; being a race car's personal physician had taken up most of his time.  And, for that matter. . . .he hadn't _wanted_ to visit home.  He hadn't wanted to leave Chick.

As the Crippler drove past the recently constructed airport, he noticed that other than an increase in traffic, not a whole lot had changed.  _Maybe with more cars around, I can get some patients besides Spatula and Ginormous,_ the ambulance thought.  _I can afford to fix up my old garage now, so I could start treating some of these tourists._

But that reminded him of the fact that he had left all his medical equipment back at Chick's headquarters; having left in such a hurry, he hadn't taken time to arrange its delivery.  "Damn," the ambulance muttered to himself.  He'd have to send for his supplies before he could start practicing again.

Even grumpier than before, the Crippler slowed as he approached the run-down gas station where he had lived before leaving Ornament Valley.  For some reason, he didn't want to return to his old home yet; even that reminded him of Chick.  It was where the race car had first shown that he had a hidden nicer side, and where he had asked the Crippler to join his team.

Forcing those memories to the back of his mind, the Crippler made a sudden U-turn and started back the way he had come; however, now he turned off onto one of the dirt roads that led away from the highway out into the desert.  As the ambulance picked up speed, he turned on his lights and siren, grinning as his huge tires sent clouds of sand flying in all directions and the raucous squawking of his siren echoed through the empty hills.  He felt better than he had all week.

The Crippler had been racing in the desert, kicking up rocks and running over hapless cacti, for almost two hours when he heard the one laugh that was more insane than his own.  He braked and looked up at a nearby hill in time to see Count Spatula and Ginormous appear over its crest.

  
" _Crippler!_ " Spatula bellowed.  "I thought I heard your siren!"  The horned truck bounced down the hill with the purple Ginormous close behind him.  "Vhat are you doing here?  Vhen did you get back?  Vhy didn't you tell us?"

"Blaaargh!" contributed Ginormous.

"I got here pretty early this morning; didn't wanna wake you up, ehehe."  The Crippler rolled up to his old friends and gave them each a hood-butt.

"So vhere is that race car of yours?" Spatula asked, glancing around.  "Back at your place?"

The Crippler glared and turned away from them.  "He isn't here."

"Dnuuh?" Ginormous asked.

"Oh. . . I see."  Spatula was quiet a moment, then he asked, "So, how vor long are you here?"

"Vor-- for good."  The Crippler started another lap around the caldera so he wouldn't have to see Spatula's expression-- whether it would be one of pity or of "I told you so," the Crippler wasn't in the mood.  "I'm gonna start my practice back up, soon as I get my stuff back.  Maybe cash in on some of these tourists."

"Dn--" Ginormous began again, but Spatula put a tire in front of him to stop him, shaking his hood slightly.

"Are you up vor a rally?  There vill be one at the Rustbucket tomorrow night," Spatula suggested.

Grateful for the change of subject, the Crippler finished his lap and pulled up in front of his friends again.  "Kinda late for me to enter, isn't it?"

"Vell, no one vill mind.  Usually it is only Gin and me, although the Banshee may be running too."

"The Screaming Banshee?  _He's_ running rallies now?  Eheheheh!" the Crippler snickered.

"Yes, he started about the time you left-- it vas no fun having a rally vit just the two of us."  Spatula shrugged his tires.  "He makes it more interesting, at least, and he never vins."

"Hmm.  Well, why not?" the Crippler grinned.  "I'll practice some and get back in shape.  It'll be fun."  _And,_ he added silently, _it'll take my mind off **him**._

\--

The next afternoon, the Crippler was taking a pre-rally nap in his old gas-station home when a pounding on the garage door jolted him out of a dream.

"Nnugh," he muttered, glad to be awakened.  The dream had been about Chick.

The ambulance rolled to the sliding door and pushed it up, expecting the caller to be Count Spatula or Ginormous.  However, there was nothing in his line of vision.  He glanced from side to side before looking down to see a green pickup truck staring up at him.

". . . Buck?"  The Crippler blinked, then glared down at the pickup.  "What're _you_ doing here?"

"If you mean why am I in Carburetor County," Buck answered with his usual patience, "I'm visiting my girlfriend."

"I _mean_ ," the Crippler glowered, "why are you _here_?  Whaddya want?"

Buck sighed.  "It's about Chick."

"Then I don't want to hear it," snarled the Crippler.  He started to slam down the garage door, but Buck shoved his way into the station before the ambulance could shut him out.

"You don't, hunh?" said the pickup truck.  "You're telling me that you really _don't_ care about him, as much as you worry about him?"

The Crippler didn't say anything at first, then he finally muttered, "Okay, what is it?  Is he-- is something wrong?"

"No, he's all right," Buck admitted, "but. . . you know he didn't mean what he said to you."

"Then he shouldn't have said it!" snapped the ambulance.

"The boss runs his big mouth so much, he probably doesn't know half of what comes out of it.  And _you_ aren't exactly the model of discretion either."  When the Crippler didn't respond, only fiddled with the remnants of an old axle lying on one counter, Buck went on, "Look, Chick misses you.  He _does_ need you, whatever he says to the contrary."

"Yeah?  Then why are _you_ here instead of him?  He obviously doesn't miss me enough to come after me."

"He _did_ come," Buck said.  "When I asked for time off to come see Sunny, he said I could only have it if he came too.  He's in our suite up at Wheel Well."

There was a long silence before the ambulance murmured, "Does he know you're here?"

"No, he thinks I'm at the movies with Sunny," said Buck.  "We got here last night, and he's been holed up in his room ever since, sulking.  You know what a coward he can be-- he doesn't have the transmission to come talk to you, because it would mean admitting he's wrong."

"So what'm _I_ supposed to do about it?" the Crippler growled, trying to ignore his feelings at knowing Chick was nearby.  "I'm not going up there after him."

"So you don't have the transmission to apologize either, hunh?"  Buck didn't sound surprised.

"It's not that!" snapped the ambulance.  "But he's got a lot more to apologize for than I do!  And anyway,  I have a rally tonight at the Rustbucket.  I have to get ready."

Buck gave the Crippler a tired look.  "Fine.  But if you change your mind, you should know we're leaving tomorrow morning."  The green truck rolled out of the station, grumbling something about wasting the best years of his life on stubborn ingrates.

\--

That evening, Chick accompanied Buck and the crew chief's girlfriend Sunny Sonoma to the Rustbucket Race-o-Rama.  Chick had once hoped that he'd never have to enter the hillbilly stadium again, but Buck mentioned that he overheard some cars talking about that night's rally-- and that they said the Crippler would be participating.  Chick still hadn't been able to work up the nerve to go apologize, but he couldn't pass up the chance to see the ambulance, at least.

"Welcome to th' Rustbucket Race-o-Rama!" a voice drawled over the loudspeaker as Chick followed Buck and Sunny to their places in the stadium.  "This-here's Mater, wishin' you-all a good evenin', an' our four contestants th' best a' luck!  Thass right, we got _four_ contestants tonight!" the old tow truck went on.  "'Sides th' usual two, Count Spatula an' Ginormous, we got th' _Screamin' Banshee_ \-- makes muh tow cable rattle jest thinkin' 'bout it!  _And_ back in Carburetor County fer th' fust time in months is th' Crippler!  Wonder if he can keep up after missin' all that practice!"

The Crippler apparently thought he could.  Chick couldn't hear what the ambulance yelled from that distance, but he saw the Crippler's flashing red lights come on, to the cheers of the crowd.

"Wooooooo!" Sunny squealed.  She was apparently a Crippler fan, which led Chick to wonder why she hadn't asked about the reason the Crippler was back in Ornament Valley.  _Either she thinks he came with Buck and me-- or Buck told her what happened_.

Chick looked down at the ambulance as the Crippler and the other contenders lined up at the starting line.  The so-called "Screaming Banshee" worried Chick: he was a _huge_ piece of construction machinery that dwarfed even the monster trucks.  Still, he didn't look like he could possibly go fast enough to keep up with the others, and Chick hoped that meant he wouldn't get anywhere near the Crippler.

Once the race started, the Screaming Banshee proved surprisingly quick for his size, though the three monster trucks still stayed well ahead of him.  Chick realized that the Banshee's advantage came from his construction: while the barrels, crates, another obstacles on the track slowed down the others to some degree, they didn't even faze him.

Chick then turned his attention to the Crippler.  The ambulance blared his siren as he rounded the first turn of the figure-eight-shaped track.  Chick felt a shiver along his fuel line as he watched the ambulance.  Out there racing, his lights flashing and his siren running, he looked. . . well, pretty damn sexy.

The second turn brought Chick's side of the arena into the ambulance's line of vision.  The Crippler glanced up in the stands then stared as his intense blue eyes fell on Chick.  Apparently so startled that he put on his brakes, the Crippler slowed abruptly, just as the Banshee was coming up behind him.  Chick's engine was already in his throat, but it felt as if it stopped when one of the Banshee's huge, metal-spiked wheels crunched into the back right corner of the Crippler.

" _Crippler!_ " Chick yelped.  The ambulance shrieked in pain and spun out of control, crashing into the guard rail along the left side of the track.  His momentum tipped him over on his left side with a horrible crunching noise.

"By th' manufacturer, what happened?" Mater exclaimed over the loudspeaker, but Chick barely heard him; he was already pushing his way down through the stands towards the track.  The other two monster trucks, who had been just ahead of the Crippler, slammed on their brakes and returned to their friend's side.

"Blaaaargh?" Ginormous whimpered.

"Outta my way!" Chick growled, shoving the other gawking spectators aside to join the competitors on the track.  As he rolled onto the track, he saw that the Banshee's wheel had punctured even the thick rubber of the Crippler's rear right monster truck tire.  There was broken glass scattered about, presumably from the ambulance's left window which had hit the track.  The left side of his bar of red lights was shattered as well, and the right flashed feebly.  The Crippler's eyes were tightly shut.

The Screaming Banshee was apparently a big softy, despite his appearance.  "I'm so sorry," he stammered over and over, almost near tears in his left eye; the right half of his windshield had been shattered long ago.  "He just stopped right in frontta me. . . dere wasn't nothin' I could do."

"Crippler. . . ."  Chick nudged the ambulance's front bumper fearfully, then to his relief, the Crippler slowly opened his right eye.  His lid only came up about half way, but at least he was alive.

"Chick?"

"I'm sorry," Chick blurted out.  "Chrysler, I'm sorry."

"You're actually apologizing for something? Ehehehe. . . ."  The Crippler's giggle was weak, but it was there.

"Vhat are _you_ doing here?" Count Spatula interrupted with a scornful glare at the race car.

"Bite me, Dracula," Chick snapped, then he turned back to the ambulance.  He stroked the side of the Crippler's bumper with one tire.  "I-I shouldn't have come-- if you hadn't seen me--"

"Shut up. . . racer boy," the Crippler murmured.  "Hearing you say you're sorry for something is worth a little flat tire."

"Dawwww," Ginormous crooned.

\--

A couple hours later, the Crippler was safely installed in Doc Hudson's medical office in Radiator Springs, although it had been quite an ordeal bringing him in.  To begin with, Mater had had trouble righting the heavy truck; it had taken ropes attached to Spatula and Ginormous to get the Crippler back on his remaining tires so that Mater could tow him into town.

Once there, the Crippler had complained about being worked on by another doctor.  When Doc pointed out that it was a choice between either himself or the Crippler's own father who lived up past Tailfin Pass, the ambulance agreed to let the Hudson see to him.

The damage wasn't as bad as it had appeared on the track.  After Luigi, the little Fiat who ran the town's tire shop, put on a replacement monster truck tire, the Crippler's main ailment was his crushed back bumper and right corner.  Doc said that despite being painful, it wasn't a serious injury.  Other than that, the ambulance only needed one new window, a replacement light, and a new coat of paint from Ramone once everything else was repaired.

Nevertheless, Doc had insisted that the Crippler stay in the office overnight for observation.  The Hudson had just settled in with a magazine when Chick Hicks pushed open the office doors nervously.

"Can I help you?" Doc asked him sardonically.

"I, uh. . . wanted to visit the patient," Chick muttered.

Doc raised one half of his windshield.  "Normally I don't allow visiting hours in the middle of the night.  But wait. . . that's why he left the county, wasn't it?  To be on your pit crew?"

"Yes, he's. . . he was my personal physician," muttered Chick.  "Look, I know you old cars like to get to bed early, so I'll sit up with him."

"Believe I'll take you up on that," Doc said, unperturbed, as he glanced at the Crippler.  "But only because working on _you_ interrupted my plans for the evening, boy.  Try not to burn the place down before morning."

"You don't have to do this, you know," the Crippler said once Doc had left.

"But it's my fault you got hurt," Chick grumbled as he rolled over to the mat where the Crippler rested.

"Well, stop feeling guilty about it.  You're making _me_ feel guilty for making _you_ feel guilty."  The ambulance stretched his back wheel gingerly and winced.  "Even though it _is_ your fault."

"I thought you were. . . dead or something.  I. . . ."

"Chick--"

"I'm sorry, okay?" Chick blurted out before he changed his mind.  "For everything I said.  I do need you-- I realized that when I saw you out there and thought. . . ."  He trailed off, then cast his brown eyes up at the ambulance belligerently.  "And if you tell a single soul that I apologized, I'll kill you myself.  I have my reputation to consider."

"Your reputation as the biggest jerk in the racing circuit, ehehe?"

Chick harrumphed and glared down at the floor, until the Crippler put his huge front tires on either side of the race car and hugged him.

"Chick, I need you too.  That's why it pisses me off when you don't take care of yourself-- 'cos it makes me realize how easy it'd be to lose you."  The ambulance planted a kiss on Chick's roof.  "I love you."

"I. . . I. . . ."  Chick squeezed his eyes shut and pressed up against one of the Crippler's huge tires.  "Iloveyoutoo," he finally mumbled in a rush.  "I want you to come back.  I promise I'll take better care of myself if you're around."

The Crippler drew back just far enough to bend down and kiss Chick hard.  The race car started in surprise then leaned up to kiss the Crippler back.

"Never thought I'd hear you say that," the Crippler murmured when they finally broke apart.

"What, that I'll take care of myself?"

"No.  That you love me."  The Crippler smiled down at him, for once looking more tender than insane.

"Don't tell anyone I said _that_ either," Chick grumbled.  "Even though it's the truth."

"I won't.  It'll be our little secret, hunh?" He gave Chick another deep kiss.  "Long as Doc doesn't come back any time soon."

As he slid a tire along Chick's side, the race car smirked.  "You harp on me to take better care of myself, and here you are trying to fool around right after you've been in a wreck?"

"Hey, I'm the doctor.  You're not."  The Crippler nipped the side of his bumper.  "This won't hurt a bit, racer boy."

\--

The End


End file.
